Preface: I use disposable contact lenses. The suggested period for their use is two weeks. I generally treat this “suggested period” the same way I treat the expiration date on milk: it’s basically a general guideline and it’s probably OK to keep using it until it’s obviously not.
For reasons unknown to us (probably laziness) Lynnette and I have yet to order our new contacts. I knew a month or two ago that I was down to my last two pairs, so I decided that I would be “extra careful” in using them. No, I don’t know what that could possibly mean, either. Anyway, I’d been running the last set pretty hard, and I think what finally did them in was the grading at weird hours that I did over the last four days of fall break. The lens in my left eye felt strange in particular – like it no longer fit my eye or something. But I really needed to get that grading done and I don’t like wearing my glasses, so I soldiered on.
By the middle of work Monday, both eyes were irritated, so I kept removing the contacts, moistening them with solution, then shoving them back in there. By last period I could barely keep my left eye open. I ripped the contact out and on my drive home. “There’s something wrong with my eye,” I said stoically when I got home. “Let me see it,” Lynnette said. She said something unfit for print in an outlet as classy as this. It was really red. It was weepy. It was as if only half of my face watched This is Us.
I went to our eye doctor who advised me to: order new contacts, stick to the two-week limit, and not wear glasses for a week. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked of my crimson orb. “Oh, so the contact just sucked everything to the front of the eyeball. It’s inflamed,” she said. “Oh,” I said.
So, now. the unintended consequence of having to wear glasses is that I have to get a haircut sooner than I wanted to. I have a fat head and my glasses are pretty snug around the sides of said fat head. The arms of the glasses tramp down on my hair, but make the hair around it stand up. When I take the glasses off, it looks the same way the grass at a park does when I lift up the blanket we were sitting on and I can see the unseemly imprint of my butt cheeks.
“Ho, not the glasses, ah?” a student has already said. “Whoa, I thought you were Mr. Chan!” a student has already said. “Ho, you and Mr. Chan! Braddaaaaaaahhhz!” a student has already said. One more week of this.